Buzz Killer

by Tom Straw

  Even though Trifonov was a willing talker, driven by his own agenda, Wild had hers too. Together Macie and Gunnar had painstakingly assessed the bits of solid information they had, including that lien against the previous Ajax owner, the research Monheit put together on the oligarch’s mining activities, and, of course, the zip pouch Rúben Pinto had skimmed from the safe in Trifonov’s penthouse burglary. What they needed now was the connective tissue. So she decided to keep Pyotr talking by feeding his sense of betrayal. “That’s outrageous,” she said. “Litvinenko publicly outed Vladimir Putin, accusing him of corruption and sanctioning murders. I’ve read about you. Weren’t you loyal to him?”

  “Always! This is—yes, as you said—my outrage!”

  “Then why the polonium?” asked Gunnar, falling right in step with her, feeding the indignation to beckon him onward.

  “Because in Russia now, money is more important than loyalty after all.”

  Wild said, “Help me understand, Mr. Trifonov. You were loyal and you helped make—and, as you just admitted—hide money too. Killing you . . . Why?” He pulled a face and his long pause made her suddenly worry she had pushed things too eagerly. But then came his reply. And it was big.

  “They kill me this way and make me an example to all because I fucked up. Oh, yes, I do well for the, ah, consortium, for years, make profitable doing the business, doing the laundering, doing it all. Life is champagne and thumbs-up, right? But then a single theft jeopardized our whole enterprise. I was blameless. But they called me careless. No matter, the impact was costly. Enormously so. Someone had to pay. To show the others. And, I am consortium’s revenge.”

  Macie recalled the Putin credo about reward and punishment. Trifonov had lived the friend side of that equation. Now something had made him an enemy. She played again to his sense of indignation. “It’s unbelievable to me. How could something like a small theft create such an injustice?”

  “Because it was not small! Did I say it was small? Look what they did to me. Does this look small?” Some drool trickled onto his undershirt, creating an amber pond. “They broke into my apartment, thieves in the night. Most of what they took was meaningless. Duplicate copies of public documents, my immigration papers, business and trade proposals, some cash, about $600,000, nothing much. But they stole the one thing that is explosive. Was worth killing me.” He held up his orange notebook. “All this in here? Damning, yet nothing compared to that one item taken from that safe. That is devastating.”

  “Tell us,” urged Gunnar.

  “Yes, please,” added Macie, leaning forward to make him feel even more the star.

  “A pouch. Such a small thing, really. But inside . . .” The Russian cast his eyes down in shame. “They told me I should have used the embassy vault. But I wanted it kept physically separate from government to keep it clean. So that apartment safe was where I kept the banking instruments.” He looked up to explain. “I was the keeper of the official government stamps and seals that we used to illegally validate our stolen currency transfers. You see, you can’t just take money out of the country. It has a trail, a provenance. So my task was to create false, yet legitimate-looking, documents that allowed the billions and billions to flow from Russia, Ukraine, what have you, to the crony banks I set up. Mostly in Moldova.”

  “Crony banks?” asked Gunnar.

  “Where we own the bank and we are its only customer. Dirty money in, we validate with stamps and seals on the documentation, clean money out. From there it goes to secret offshore accounts or gets laundered again through various means.” Wild had something to say about one of those means but held it for now. Satisfied that she had all she needed for the moment, Macie gave the sign to Gunnar, and he pulled a cell phone out of his backpack. But it wasn’t his phone. It was the one he had taken off Borodin’s body.

  Earlier that morning, Gunnar had examined the cell to see what he could find in Borodin’s Recents and Messages. It didn’t require much effort. This device had only communicated with one other number, and that was by text. There were no e-mails, in, out, or saved. The text messages themselves had been deleted, but the phone number—without a name—resided atop the blank window when he opened the Messages app. The area code was listed to Montana. Unless Borodin had a pal who was a fly fisherman, Gunnar assumed it to be a burner.

  He thumbed-in the message he and Wild had agreed on.

  Found Hall. Tracked him to Hotel Cornwell. Hall has the pouch and tried to make deal with fucking Trifonov. Holding both. Rm 716. Will tell front desk OK to send you up.

  At the send whoosh Macie moved beside Gunnar to monitor the screen with him. Trifonov had spent a lot of energy, and his chest rose and fell in dozy oblivion. After half a minute, she whispered, “Shouldn’t we get an answer by now?”

  “Would be nice,” he said just as the incoming text chimed.

  K. 30 mins.

  Even though the digital time was right there on the phone, they both checked their watches. “So. By noon,” she said.

  “Unless word leaks out that Borodin bought it. If so, our plan’s pretty much screwed.”

  “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.”

  Gunnar sat and checked his gun again. “Happy now.” Then they went to work preparing the room.

  ♢ ♢ ♢

  Twenty minutes later there was a knock at the door. They didn’t answer it. Gunnar had stationed Macie inside the bathroom with Luka Borodin’s pocket pistol in her trembling hand, armed for the worst-case scenario. The ex-cop had positioned himself just out of sight, hugging the corner where the entry hall met the bedroom. The blackout drapes were drawn and all the lights were out except the reading lamp on the nightstand beside the sleeping Russian. Gunnar’s stage setting was all about tactical shadows and illumination that drew the eye away from him. He had wedged the door ajar by swinging the hinged security bar between it and the jamb so it wouldn’t close. Macie heard the door push open. Corridor light fanned across the entry floor. The wall switch snapped on then off uselessly. She had removed the overhead bulbs. “Borodin?”

  Cody grunted in a whisper laced with Luchik’s accent. “Yuh.”

  The door swept closed, bounced once on the metal swing bar, and the entry was cast again in darkness. Footsteps, muffled by the deep carpeting, approached slowly. In silhouette, she made out Gunnar bringing his Sig up in a two-handed brace. Wild couldn’t see around him but wasn’t too surprised when she heard Gunnar say, “Hands in the clear, counselor.” But when she emerged from behind Gunnar and saw who it was, Macie had to steady herself against the wall.

  Because the counselor being held at gunpoint was her father.

  C H A P T E R • 38

  * * *

  “Oh, good Lord, no,” she moaned. Beyond stunned, Wild’s gun felt stupid and heavy, and she lowered it to her side.

  Jansen Wild’s dumbstruck gaze drifted from his daughter to the bore of the .45 Gunnar was aiming at him then back to Macie. Her father gulped some air, a goldfish out of his bowl, and then he spoke. “What the hell is this?”

  “No—Dad—let me ask you,” said Macie, who was still reeling. “What the hell?” Mr. Wild said nothing. Gunnar switched on the table lamps then limped into the entryway to stow the security bar and close the door. Jansen seemed annoyed by that. “This is false imprisonment, you know.” But the ex-cop, unfazed, began patting him down.

  “Gunnar,” said Macie. “Is that necessary?” No sooner had she asked than he removed a Walther CCP from the outer pocket of her father’s suit coat. Yet another blow to absorb. She dropped her chin to her chest and ditched her own weapon into the pocket of her blazer.

  Without comment, Gunnar dropped her father’s pocket pistol in the dresser drawer where he had moved Trifonov’s piece. “Have a seat.”

  Jansen followed the sweep of Gunnar’s hand to the armchair and complied. “I’ll say it once more: This is false imprisonment. I wish to leave. Macie, even if this miscreant doesn’t, I know you respect the law. There’s been
some mistake, some misunderstanding.”

  “Jansen?” came the weak voice from the pillows. The silence that followed hearing his name undid any pretense of a mix-up.

  Clinging to quiet indignation, Mr. Wild said to Gunnar, “I have no idea what this is about, but you hold the gun, so I’ll just have to sit here and wait.”

  Macie caught Gunnar’s eye then trailed her gaze to the Sig Sauer. He hesitated briefly, but holstered his pistol. Gaining a small amount of equilibrium, she sat on the corner of the bed to face her dad. “I’m very afraid. Afraid of what we’re going to have to talk about.”

  “Are you pulling some good-cop angle on me? My own daughter?”

  The shock of his involvement made something deep inside her crack. Small fissures began hatching anger the more he acted like a goddamned lawyer. She could only guess how many therapy sessions she would have over this. But for now, Macie stuffed all that down and pushed back. “We are going to get into this, Dad. And I want—no, I demand—the truth from you.”

  “Mace, I’m sorry I—”

  “No. Do not sorry me.” She steamrolled ahead before her broken heart weakened her resolve. “I’m going to give you a chance to tell me—honestly—what are you doing here? And with a gun?”

  “Mr. Trifonov is a client. I was concerned for his well-being.”

  “Oh, you are so pissing me off. Trifonov is a client of Orem Diner’s.”

  “Are you actually asking me to violate privilege?”

  “I will tell you,” said Trifonov.

  “Pyotr, be quiet,” called Jansen to the man in the bed.

  “Yes, Orem Diner is my attorney—for most things.”

  “Pyotr, please.”

  “But Jansen Wild, he arranged for The Ajax.”

  “Will you shut up?”

  Trifonov suppressed a wheezing cough. “Is all in the diary.”

  Feeling Macie’s glare, her father said, “I never figured you to stoop to entrapment.”

  “I never figured you to be a criminal.”

  “Why, because I helped someone set up a legal shell corporation?”

  She pointed to the bed. “So he could illegally launder millions plundered from Russia.” Macie’s head was still spinning but, sorting through the maelstrom, she managed to pull out a recollection. “Remember at lunch when you schooled me on LLCs, you said that you caught overflow from Orem Diner? It makes sense now. Diner already handled the previous owner of The Ajax penthouse. So your pal farmed out Mr. Trifonov’s LLC setup to you so he’d be the seller and you’d be the buyer. Just a little camouflage for nosy investigators.”

  “Come on, Mace, even a public defender should know there’s no law against helping wealthy clients broker real estate deals. Manhattan would still be a bunch of thatched roofs otherwise.”

  “But it wasn’t between two clients,” said Gunnar. “It was between one client and himself.”

  Mr. Wild’s blink rate increased. Trifonov croaked out from the bed, “Jansen, they know.”

  “My client is delusional.” He was starting to crumble, which ate at Macie’s heart. But it was this man before her who had given her the gene to stand for the truth. And she would get it.

  She picked up her iPad. “The prior owner, as recorded on a property lien, is named Jerónimo Teixeira.” Wild swiped to open a doc. “My investigator checked Mr. Teixeira’s worth. He has an allowance through his mother, but nowhere near the $30 million cash he paid for that condo. She repeated the sale price for emphasis. “Thirty million. In cash. That money came from Jerónimo Teixeira’s father.” Macie indicated the bed. “Pyotr Trifonov.” There came a loud sniff from the mattress. Jansen Wild, meanwhile, swallowed hard and licked his lips with a stale tongue. She continued.

  “When Mr. Trifonov invested his plundered funds from Russian banks and corporations, one of his laundering ventures was a mining operation in Africa. Specifically, Angola.”

  “The Internet is a stubborn thing,” said Gunnar. “All those nasty little stories get posted and then stick like burrs to your socks.”

  Macie tapped open the 1990s article from the European tabloid that Tiger had dug up. “‘Russian Mining Boss Digs Local Woman,’” she said, reciting the headline. “You don’t need me to read it, do you? You know the story. A scandal over an illegitimate son. Then a fat hush money payoff to make it go away. The mother gets rich, and gets amnesia.” Macie walked the iPad over to Trifonov and showed him the picture from the old newspaper of himself and the Angolan teen observing the mining operation. “This would be your boy, wouldn’t it?”

  “Jerónimo,” he sighed, a lifetime criminal making peace with truth in increments.

  She moved back to show the screen to her dad. “I just learned that, two years ago, Mr. Trifonov’s mining firm paid a one-time consulting fee of $30 million to Jerónimo Teixeira. Really? An eighteen-year-old college student, as a consultant in what?”

  “Lap dances?” asked Gunnar.

  Macie pressed her case. “I’m going to say that the thirty mil from Mr. Trifonov was funneled directly into purchasing that penthouse condo at The Ajax. The very condo that your client then bought from his own son at a cash price of $40 million through the LLC you set up for him.”

  “Kinda like robbing Pyotr to pay . . . well, Pyotr,” said Gunnar. “Clever, but it’s still laundering $70 million of Mother Russia’s illegal money.”

  He snapped at Cody. “You have balls lecturing me on ethics.” It was a flash of bravado, but her father began to fidget. Sweat glistened on his upper lip.

  “Dad, you are so past ethics.”

  “You can just stop.”

  But she didn’t. “This is criminal activity.”

  “Enough!”

  “And conspiracy.”

  “Oh, now it’s conspiracy too?” He broke eye contact, couldn’t look at his daughter. But Macie was swept up in a current and couldn’t hold back.

  “These past weeks you kept saying you were so concerned about my safety. And all the time, you were working with Luka Borodin. I’m not sure whether you were working for him or he was working for you, but I do know you were in deep.” When he dropped his head and studied his hands, she shouted, “Look at me! I’m talking about the same man who tried to kidnap me. And I am certain that he killed Pinto.”

  “What makes you think I’m connected with this man? What’s his name? Borden?”

  “Borodin,” Gunnar repeated with emphasis. “I’m surprised, sir, because how do you think we got you to come here?” He held up the phone. “I used Borodin’s cell to text you. And you responded. And here you are.” The attorney stared at the cell phone and sighed.

  Whatever small amount of restraint Macie clung to shattered. “Goddamn it, how can you just sit there like this?” She came off the corner of the bed and threw herself at her father, shaking him by the shoulders. He raised up his arms in defense and she swatted them down. He shoved her away and stood. Macie came back on him. This time she hurled curses and shook him again, hard. Gunnar waded in to pull her off. He got his arms around her, but his leg kept him from getting the leverage he needed. When he was finally able to draw her away, they both froze.

  Jansen Wild was holding Gunnar’s .45 on them.

  “OK, let’s clamp a lid on this right now,” said Gunnar. His voice carried the strain of reproof for letting his holster get stripped. He extended an open palm. Jansen Wild ignored it and stiff armed the Sig. He took a tentative step back toward the entryway.

  “You’re not leaving.” Her father turned his attention from Gunnar to find Macie two-handing the Ruger she had fished from her pocket.

  Mr. Wild’s eyes blinked rapidly behind his glasses. Gunnar lowered his tone, trying to instill calm. “Everybody just hold. Don’t anyone do anything.”

  “Macie . . .”

  She disengaged the safety of the LC9s the way Gunnar had instructed her earlier. “Sit back down.” He didn’t move. Neither did she. Father and daughter stood mere yards apart in a leth
al standoff.

  “What are you doing with that?” he asked.

  “I got it from your man Borodin,” said Macie. “Right after I killed him.”

  Was it the news that Borodin was dead? Or was it the flat stare in the eyes of his own daughter that made the Sig Sauer waver in Jansen Wild’s hand. “You . . . did that?”

  “I had to.”

  His lower lip developed a tremor to match his arm’s. “You what . . . ? Because of me— Oh, God, Macie . . .” Tears fell down both cheeks and his glasses started to fog. “I never meant for this to go so far.” Yet he still held out his gun, and she, hers. But then emotion overwhelmed him. “Forgive me.” His breath shuddered and he started to bring the gun up off her toward himself.

  “No, Dad!”

  Gunnar threw himself at him and batted the pistol away before he got it under his chin. The Sig flew from his hand onto the carpet. Jansen lost his legs and started to crumble. Gunnar caught him and spun him to the chair where he bent forward, folded over his own lap, gagging with sobs. Macie started toward him. Gunnar relieved her of Borodin’s Ruger and she fell on her knees beside her father, trying not to cry herself for fear she would never stop.

  After he was spent, he brought himself upright in the chair. “Macie, I never meant any harm to you. I tried to get you out of this—multiple times. I kept pushing to get you to give up the case and steer you clear of all this, but you wouldn’t do it.” She thought about his warnings—even about his urging her to go away to Germany—and did believe him. With bankrupt eyes, he studied his daughter. “And now you killed a man . . .”

  “Because of you,” she couldn’t help saying. “Did you send Borodin to Rúben Pinto?”

  “Let’s say Pyotr fell from grace and I got a clear message I had better help clean things up.”